House of Ash
by Iryana
Summary: Before he was John Mandrake, he was Nathaniel. The story of Nathaniel's early life and the events that led to his adoption. Pre-AoS. WIP.


_House of Ash_

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Bartimaeus Trilogy. This story was written for pleasure, not profit.

I would like to profusely thank my beta, Mintaka. Thank you so much! Your suggestions and pointers are greatly appreciated!

This story explores Nathaniel's early life and his parents, and what their reasons could have been for giving him up. Very little mention is made of them in the trilogy, and only one brief exchange from AoS, (51):

"_His parents—they've left, I take it?"_

"_Yes, sir. They couldn't run away fast enough. The usual sort: take the money and run, if you get my meaning, sir. Barely stopped to say good-bye to him."_

Constructive criticism and feedback is always welcome.

NOTE: I know nothing of pregnancy and birth other than a blood-free video we watched in health class, so please forgive me if I completely messed that up.

_Nor sad, nor proud,_

_Nor curious at all._

_He cannot tell _

_Old men's placidity from his. _

Wilfred Owen, _Insensibility_

The hospital was already filled to capacity when, in the early hours of the morning, a woman arrived, supported by her husband. Her condition was obvious: a belly huge with child. The hospital staff looked upon her with pity, but having nothing better to offer, had to place her inside an old, rundown room that had been abandoned since the hospital's building expansion.

The place that the woman bore her child reflected her status quite appropriately.

All four sides of the hospital room were surrounded by crumbling plaster walls the color of bone. The floor was tiled, but the steps of many feet had long since worn away its color. Its only connection with the rest of the bustling hospital was a door, but not a proper one at all. A length of yellowing cloth gave the room minimal privacy from the eyes of gawking strangers. A bare bulb hanging from the ceiling was the only source of light, save a pane of glass fitted into a corner of the room. Normally, it would have overlooked the visitor's courtyard, which was located in the heart of the hospital. However, a thick layer of grime graced the surface, effectively blocking the thin rays of sunlight that ventured from the bitter November sky. Not that there would have been much of a view, at any rate. The dawn of winter had stripped most of the stunted trees of their leaves, leaving them more forlorn than before.

All in all, it was a room fit for nothing more than a commoner.

A bed was shoved against one of the walls, on which the woman laid. The mattress was hardly adequate for her condition. Its thinness did little to pad the woman's back from the hard, steel bed frame. An exhausted nurse, already past her shift, provided her cursory services from the foot of the bed and attempted to provide what little comfort she could to ease the woman through labor. Amidst all of this activity, the woman's husband looked on anxiously from a chair pulled up to the side of the bed. Under usual circumstances, he was a man who carried pride in his spine, his shoulders open and direct. On that day, he sat, hunched and nervous, with his wife's hand in his. She was silent during the whole ordeal, and only the crushing grip on her husband's hand revealed her agony. The woman's hair stuck in damp clumps upon her forehead.

When at last the baby came, the woman cried out—the only time—before collapsing onto the bed. Her hand contracted briefly; a squeeze that turned her knuckles white. The nurse performed the proper post-birth rituals before handing the mother her child. The woman gazed upon her child with delight, her eyes memorizing every detail of him. The nurse smiled tiredly and paid the appropriate compliments.

"A fine boy!" she remarked. "What shall you and your husband name him?"

The woman's smile was the brightest light in the room.

"His name is Nathaniel," she replied.

* * *

The years after my son's birth were among the happiest of my life. No longer was my life a dull existence, but the very definition of purpose and joy. I drew every pleasure from my son; indeed, it seemed that my world and my husband's revolved around his well being and happiness. Nothing delighted me more than to wake early in the morning to gaze upon Nathaniel, still asleep, as the first light of the sun crept through the window. Even my husband, usually so reserved and stern in his emotions, seemed to take great enjoyment in our child.

Our ritual was this: my husband would leave early in the morning to his work as an accountant in a banking firm owned by a prominent magician. After his hasty departure, for his employer disliked any tardiness, I would sit with Nathaniel in our small living room. We would spend hours there, and we occupied the time of my husband's absence with games, stories, and songs. It was very easy to lose track of the time, for Nathaniel was a bright child, quick to learn and to please. When my husband would arrive back home, he would sit, as was his custom, at the dining table with newspaper in hand while I prepared the evening meal. After supper, we would sit as a family in the living room. This was my favorite time of day, even more than my time with Nathaniel. My husband would shed his mask of reservation and silence for a more boisterous version of himself. He would romp with and tickle our son, much to his amusement, for it was his greatest reward to see Nathaniel shriek with glee. I would then scold my husband for winding up Nathaniel so, then we would all retire to our beds, eager for the next evening.

A child nurtured with such love and devotion would grow quickly, and Nathaniel was no exception. It was in this fashion that the first years passed - and how quickly they did! But now, as I look back upon the time of our existence as a family, I marvel at how something that was conceived in so much promise and happiness could end in such heartbreak. Somehow on that road, something turned sour. What had gone so inexplicably wrong? Sometimes, when I contemplate my life, I blame our misfortunes on the magicians and their cursed regime. This is most certainly true, for didn't the magicians claim my son? And then I think of my own failings and I weep. Nothing would have saved us from our fate.


End file.
